Pierced
by MaplePucks
Summary: Struck down by an arrow, Little England's only hope lies in France. That young, flamboyant lad who likes to wear dresses. The situation does not look good for the little boy. But if France can save him, will there be a time in the future England would have to do the same? Could he bring himself to save the Frog? Let's see if he can manage to save him first. *FrUk, blood, angst*


**Gah, I'm so mean to little England. Even though I just started cosplaying him. Hell, I'm mean to my FrUk loves in general. I really do adore this ship though. Goodness. ^^**

**Enjoy! Please, give me tips for improvement! **

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This was not a good situation Little England found himself in, not at all.

Panic rising in his small chest, England tried his best to duck down behind something that would keep him safe. The problem was, he was in the middle of an open field. There was nothing he could use for cover, the tall grass would hide him well enough but it wouldn't keep him safe from the arrows he was having to dodge. Taking a deep breath, he stood up for a moment, readying himself to take aim at his attacker.

One of those Nordic boys, it had to be England thought grabbing an arrow to put into his bow. He couldn't properly see his attacker but judging by the laugh he heard, he knew it was mostly that Denmark boy. He had attacked before but England had always managed to get away, this time, this time he wasn't so sure he could. England thought it was unusual for Denmark to be using arrows, most of the time he just chased England with his axe. It seemed as though Denmark was out for blood this go around, England had nearly been hit several times already. Little England had never been hit before and he was not after that experience.

A rustling noise close by snapped his attention and he raised his bow, placing the arrow on his fingers for balance. For being a young nation , England already had remarkable aim and power with his choice weapon. Slowly he pulled arrow back tight, relishing the tension he felt between the string and his arm. Of course, England wasn't going to aim to hit Denmark, just scare him off. A warning shot to tell him he was serious and to leave him alone.

Staring not down the arrow shaft but at his target, Little England let the arrow fly. Within seconds, he heard the satisfying sounds of a surprised gasp. He smiled broadly, lowering his bow. There, he thought smugly, that should teach him not to mess with England.

Unfortunately, the next sound he heard was the all too familiar one of an arrow whistling through the air. England panicked but didn't have time to dodge. With a dull thud and a grunt, he staggered back, an arrow now extending from the middle of his tiny abdomen.

For a few moments, he stood there in shock, staring at the long arrow now lodge in his body. He heard running, it sounded like it was moving away from where he was. Denmark, he was running away. He won this round, England thought gritting his teeth not only in pain but with anger. Then he was brought to his knee by a surge of pain.

England fell over on his side, lying in the grass. Oddly he was surprised he did not feel much blood dripping down his front or back. While he could feel small trails of the warm liquid, it wasn't the flood he had expected to be horrified by. What did horrify him was that every time he took a breath, he could feel his small frame slide just slightly along the arrow shaft. That was frightening the little boy and he closed his eyes, trying not to breathe too deeply.

England wasn't sure how long he laid there, out in the sun wounded. He tried several times to remove the arrow himself. Wrapping his small hands around the shaft, he would tug at it upwards. That did nothing but cause him panic and pain. So he lied there, hoping someone would come and rescue him. The bunnies he befriended came up and sniffed at the arrow before hopping up to nuzzle England's face. He smiled lightly, patting them on the head, they seemed to know he was injured and were trying to help. His only friends at the moment.

Just as he was about to pass out, panic starting to get the best of him, he heard the last voice he expected. England's eyes flew open. Not him! Anyone but him, he pleaded. Unfortunately, the voice only grew closer as England cringed.

"Bonjour fluffy Brows! Are you taking a nap in zhe sun? What a lovely idea! I shall join you oui?" France called. The bunnies scattered and England's panic shot up. He did not want that fobbish, young twit to see him down like this. He cleared his throat and tugged the green cloak further around him to hide the arrow poking out of his back.

"Who says I want you to join me, Frog?" England barked. His stomach move up and down substantially with the command , causing him to issue a loud gasp of pain. "Back off, France!"

Instead of stopping, the footsteps and rustling grass drew closer. Also to England's irritation he heard laugher.

"Oh Arthur! Do not be zhat way today! It is much too gorgeous for your gloomy attitude. You need to relax!" France called happily. He was getting closer. England grimaced and at his just appointed human name. That's right France did prefer to use those since they were so new. The little boy struggled for just a few moments to remember the Frenchman's name.

"Fr-Francis, no I-I-" He stumbled but it was already too late. Francis had come around and the smile that had been on his face vanished in a flash. Dropping hard to his knees in front of Arthur, he placed a gentle hand on the boy's hips to turn him just a little. Wide eyed, he stared at the arrow.

"Mon Lapin! Non! 'ow long 'ave you been zhis way?!" Francis exclaimed. Little England thought that was a fairly odd question but answered it all the same.

"I don't know, Frog. It's been quite some time-Hey! Put me down!" He shouted as Francis scooped him up off the ground and started to carry him out of the field. "Now see here! Just where..gah…are you taking me?" Arthur asked furiously. A pain wave struck his small body and he could feel the arrow now more than ever. He wished Francis would put him down. It was painful to be carried like this, in more ways than one. To his annoyance, Francis kept walking.

"I wish zhat I could, I know zhis must be painful for you but I 'ave to get you back to your cottage quickly mon ami." He said hastily, picking up the pace to s slow jog. Arthur gasped in pain and clutched at the arrow. Looking up at Francis, he furrowed his brow with worry.

"Why the rush, Francis? I-I was told Nations like us can't die. Was-was that a lie France?! No..no! I'm going to die aren't I? How is that possible?" Arthur squeaked. Panic overwhelmed him. He reached over and grabbed a handful of blue tunic, gripping it tight. He let just one lone tear fall. "Francis…I don't want to die." He whispered feebly. Francis didn't slow down but smiled.

"While zhe notion zhat Nation cannot die is indeed false, do not worry Brows. We cannot die from a wound such as zhis one. You will not die today." Francis assured him, holding the boy tighter against his chest as he began to run. Arthur released his grip on the tunic and stared blankly.

"Then again, why the rush, Frog?" he asked more heatedly this time. He was in more pain now with France running. He tried his best to ignore it but it was starting to get to him. He felt weak and began to shake against Francis. Other than stealing a glance at him, Francis remained focused on his running.

"Zhe 'ealing process may 'ave already started. And it will 'eal around zhe arrow. Take it from moi, you do not want zhat to 'appen. Zhey 'ave to cut you wide open and remove zhe arrow. It is far more painful zhan what you are experiencing now." He said sympathetically. Arthur let the thought sink into his head. With a gasp, he realized the arrow was sliding around far less, almost as if it was in him tighter.

This wasn't a good situation. Now he has an arrow stuck in him and his only hope was Francis. Arthur closed his eyes and clenched his teeth in discomfort. There was no way he could see Francis of all people possessing the knowledge and skill necessary to pull an arrow out of a person. Letting his head flop against Francis chest so that he could hear the Frenchman's pounding heart, Arthur closed his eyes.

His last thought before succumbing to the darkness was that if France was all he had, England was doomed.

The next sound little Arthur heard was someone hurrying about, rummaging through things in a cabinet. But he didn't concern himself with that for now. For a moment he kept his eyes closed, taking in the feel of his new surroundings. He was laying on his side, on something soft. He smiled, running his hand gently over it. This must be his bed. That meant he was safe, unharmed. It all must have been a horrible dream. Sighing, he tried to tune out the rummaging and roll over on his back.

But found that his movements were strangely stopped.

Reaching his hand up to his stomach, he gasped and then groaned. The arrow was still there! How? Why? Why had Francis not removed it yet?! Arthur cracked his eyes open to see Francis rushing towards him with old cloths, bandages and a bowl of water. The little boy glared indignantly as the Frenchman settled himself down on the edge of the bed.

"Why the devil haven't you taken this out of me yet?! I thought we were in some big rush!" Arthur spat ungratefully as Francis continued to busy himself with preparations but then grimaced. It was disconcerting that Francis looked very worried.

"Do not fret mon ami. We only just arrived, you 'ave not been out zhat long. Besides, I would have woken you before I pulled out zhe arrow." He stated, placing some cloths down on the bed. England did not like how that sounded, he raised an eyebrow.

"And why is that?" Arthur inquired, genuinely starting to panic again. All Francis gave him in return was a sad sympathetic look. "Oh…right. I understand." He merely squeaked. He realized that it meant pain, and quite a bit of it.

After a few moments, Francis seemed to finish preparing the items and turned to Arthur. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped both hands around the arrow shaft sticking out of the front.

"Zhis might jolt you a little mon cher." He forewarned. Arthur barely had time to process the meaning of what he said before Francis took action. In one motion, instead of pulling the arrow out, Francis snapped it in half. The motion did indeed jolt the Briton, sending sharp pain through his body. He tried his best not to scream in both agony and anger.

"What the hell Frog! Do you know what you are doing? Why did you just snap the arrow? How could that possibly help?" Arthur rambled off, trying to ignore that raging agony.

Francis didn't say a word, instead he moved around so that he was at Arthurs back. He wrapped one hand around the arrow and placed another on Arthur's shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he sighed.

"Mon ami, zhis will not be pleasant. Zhis is your first serious wound, oui?" Francis asked. Arthur merely nodded in reply. "Well zhen, try not to move around too much and just let me do zhis. Please do not fight me." Francis instructed. The command was odd to Arthur but he nodded and gripped the bed with his tiny fist.

Without any sort of countdown or warning, Francis began to pull on the arrow. Arthur gasped as he felt it slide slowly out of his body. It was an interesting feeling. One he could compare with pulling a stick out of the mud, only it seemed his role was being the mud. Surprisingly, it wasn't so much painful as it was truly unpleasant. Looking down, he watched the long shaft disappear into his body. That was an odd scene, he thought vaguely.

Once the arrow was completely removed, a whole new level of panic flooded the little boys frame. Blood, the amount he had expected earlier came rushing from his wounds. It flowed down his front and side, the warm sensation doing nothing to clear his fears.

IN a flash, Francis was on the bed, scooping Arthur into his arms. He had a cloth both on his back and front applying pressure to stop the bleeding. As he did so, he began to hum a song, presumably in French. While usually Arthur would have told him to stop, he oddly wanted him to keep going. The little boy was starting to feel very weak and sleepy. Letting his head slump against Francis yet again, he closed his eyes.

Why did he feel so safe in this man's embrace? Like nothing would ever harm him again. Didn't he hate this man? Swearing to want nothing to do with him? Then why…Arthur felt dazed as his head whirled in confusion.

Finally, Francis released the pressure and quickly wrapped Arthur in bandages. The Briton was surprised how expertly he had done that. He must have had his fair share of wounds in the past. Just a small pang of quilt hit the boy. Who had been there to help Francis? Is that why he knew what had to been done if left too long with an injury? As Francis laid him down against the pillows to rest and went to clean up the mess, Arthur grabbed his arm.

"Why-why are you helping me? I thought you hated me. I don't like you. So why..?" He was fading back to the darkness fast but looked up to Francis. His blue eyes were full of compassion as he smiled and brushed back some hair from Arthur's face.

"I believe zhat to survive as Nations, we must stick together. To 'elp one another. Perhaps zhere will come a day where you will need to 'elp me in return." Francis said sweetly. Arthur blinked in awe, letting the thought sink in as Francis covered him with a blanket. Then the man leaned down and placed a small, very friendly kiss on his forehead. "Besides mon ami, I do not 'ate you."

With that, the little boy let his eyes close. SO the Frog didn't truly hate him either. He bit his lip slightly before drifting off to sleep in order to heal.

If the situation arose, would England be able to save France, his one friend?

WW2-1940

This was not a good situation England found himself in, not at all.

Diving behind the lone remaining wall of a destroyed building, England grit his teeth. Damn German Nazi bastards! When were they just going to give up? Dodging bullets and bombs was getting old. The Allied Forces were going to win this war anyway, it was only a matter of time.

Shots close by drew his attention from thoughts of victory. He froze instantly when he heard yelling, German voices and they sounded demanding. In response, he heard a meek, barely audible voice. The person was obviously trembling too hard, England couldn't make out what language he was speaking. Some more angry German and the England jumped; gun fire erupted, from both sides he thought frightfully. Gripping his rifle tight, he nodded, it was an Ally and he would have to help.

Just as he was about to launch himself into the fray, it ended. The German voices sounded almost happy with themselves as they began to move away. That unnerved the Briton, plus he could no longer hear the Allies voice. Something must have gone wrong, which Ally had it been? Judging by the voice he had heard , he could of sworn it had been…who again? England racked his brain for a few moments, oh Canada. The satisfaction of having remembered correctly vanished in an instant when the realization hit. Canada! Not Canada!

Making sure the coast was clear, England charged out from behind his wall. He scanned the area, looking for anything out of place. At first, he didn't see anything and moved a few paces up. Then he gasped. Lying on the ground 100 yards away with his back to him was someone in a blue and red uniform. Someone with long blond hair. He was lying motionless and England wasted no time and sped towards him.

"Frog! This is no time for a lie down! Get up! This is war!" England yelled. He prayed that the Frenchman was just in shock from the encounter. However, his heart fell slightly when France didn't move and only groaned feebly.

"Non, Angleterre, let me lie 'ere for a few moments. I will be fine." France croaked. The tone of his voice caused England to stumble for a moment. Something was wrong with France. He stared hard and then let out a yelp of terror.

A large pool of blood was forming underneath his long time frienemy. Racing over to him, he grabbed his shoulder roughly and turned him over on his back. England cringed and furrowed his brow with worry. There were three bullet wounds to the Frenchman's torso. One to the right side of his chest and two to his lower abdomen. France wheezed as he looked up at England who let irritation flicker in his eyes.

"Can't you even manage to be a proper coward? Aren't they supposed to be good at dodging and running away?" England scolded, trying to keep the irritation in his voice but the worry was quickly overtaking it. France didn't answer, lolling his head to the side taking a rasping breath. From the sound of things, his lung had collapsed. England sighed and shouldered his weapon. Stooping down low, the smaller male looped his arm underneath France's arm and hoisted him up to support him. The Frenchman trembled and shook his head.

"Non-Non, I cannot walk…s'il vous plait…do not make me walk." France pleaded. England ignored the cry and started moving, half dragging France along. He did give the Frenchman a sideways scowl.

"Maybe if you laid off the win, cheese, and snails, you wouldn't be so damn heavy and I could carry you, bastard." He spat in frustration. He huffed a little ways further and glanced over to France, who he could tell was in immense pain. Letting a sympathetic look fill his eyes, England gripped him closer to him. "Look, I wish I could carry you or even let you rest a moment but we have to get you to the medical tent. You know that, Francis. You are fully aware of what will happen if we don't." England said gentle. France could only give a nod of understand, gripping his stomach wound with his free hand. With that, England completely focused on getting him to the camp.

It took them a while but finally, they made it to the camp and into the medical care area. At first, England panicked, there seemed to be no one around. With some of the last energy the Englishman had, he drug France inside and eased him onto a cot. The Frenchman sighed in relief as England sat on the edge of the cot, yelling for the doctors. Just as he heard rushing footsteps heading towards them, he felt France tug at his sleeve. Looking down he was surprised to see almost a confused look on the man's face. England raised an eyebrow.

"I zhought you 'ated me. Why did you 'elp me?" France asked weakly. England bristled but then sighed. Stroking the older hair back from his face, he smiled.

"Wasn't it your words that said to survive as Nations we need to help one another? That logic has gotten us this far, right?" He asked gently. Leaning down, he placed a small, affectionate kiss on France's lips. "Besides, my friend, I don't hate you. I never have."


End file.
